


The Demon Who Came to Tea

by SanSanFanFan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, How Aziraphale got THAT mug, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 04:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19804495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanSanFanFan/pseuds/SanSanFanFan
Summary: How Aziraphale got his angel mug...This little fluffy fic was inspired by this post on Tumblr by @dykeiel :) https://dykeiel.tumblr.com/post/186258242042/i-mean-the-fact-that-aziraphales-favourite-mug-is





	The Demon Who Came to Tea

London, 2007

There is a small package on his doorstep that in his hungover state he almost trips over as he leaves his flat, his hips and legs almost having to find a new configuration to help him regain his balance and his composure. He runs a hand quickly over his hair to push loose hairs back into place in a top knot, bleary eyes darting about behind his glasses to see if he had been spotted flailing about by anyone.

Blessedl- _thankfully_ , the corridor is empty. Apart from one thing… the cardboard box. And there is a very strong aura of temptation and desire emanating from that package. The feeling only grows as Crowley bends and picks it up, frowning as he looks the brown cube over. William, the concierge at the block, usually leaves a handwritten note in his mailbox when there, rarely, a package for him, and he would never allow a delivery person up near the flats themselves.

Then he recognises the discreet branding on the package and it all becomes a little clearer. Ultra-Prime delivery had been one of his ideas. A bunch of stuff you had never thought of wanting before, but that you could get with pretty minimal effort, was a wonderful way to tap into the humans’ material desires. Honestly, Ol’Jeff had gotten most of the way there on his own with Prime a couple of years ago. It had only taken the smallest nudge to get him all the way.

Ultra-Prime was the ultimate enabler. Not only just quick delivery but almost _instantaneous_ delivery. It seemed almost miraculous – or demonically miraculous – but Ultra-Prime just ramped up the normal system to the nth degree. Even more desperate people working for desperately low wages, with greed inducing incentives for those who went the extra mile to deliver to the hardest to get to places. It seemed now that outside Crowley’s flat was one such place.

Which didn’t, however, explain what was in the package and who it was from?

He returned inside, ignoring how the plants, just having started to relax, went instantly back on alert again.

A sharp black nail dealt quickly with the tape and soon enough he was standing peering at a plain white mug with a pair of angel wings for the handle, turning it over and over carefully in his hands.

“What in the name of Satan??”

The mug just sat there in his hands, repeating its mantra of desire. _Want. Get. Have. Need. Have me. Need me. Just a couple of digits from that silly little card, just a tiny bit of money, and I’ll be yours._

“Oh, stop that! I was the first tempter, do you think that will work on me?” He mutters to the mug under his breath. “Besides, I don’t even like you! White angel wings?! Really! Whoever bought you for me knows far too much as well as having a pretty stupid sense of humour… ahhh. You’re from the angel, aren’t you? What was he thinking?!”

Crowley frowns. He can’t quite parse the angel’s intentions here. A reminder of what he once was? Aziraphale would never be that… _cruel_.

Or had the angel gotten caught up in the web of temptations that the site wove for humans and had just bought it on impulse? Aziraphale wasn’t immune to the earthly desires, as his love of pastries showed. Even if a mug was a damned odd thing to desire.

But… Aziraphale’s computer was a relic of an era when Pong was considered state of the art. Did he even have access to the internet? Crowley tried to remember if he’d ever heard the sound of a dial-up modem coming from the back of the book shop, which was likely the most modern thing the angel could manage when it came to the Internet. Aziraphale certainly didn’t have a smartphone, the old-fashioned fool.

He realises then that he’s been idly running a fingertip over one of the wings, feeling the individual feathers carved into it. He puts it down with a sneer and reaches for the box again. Perhaps there’s a note?

His eyes widen behind his glasses as he reads the receipt.

_Sent to Mr A. J. Crowley. Bought by Mr A. J. Crowley._

“What in all the nine hells?! I bought it?!”

He summons his own phone – something black and swish that has been tweaked demonically to be even better than the market leader and complete with a mobile version of the legendary lost Gremlins Atari game – and quickly checks his account. Up until now he’s not even really used it. As a being that can manifest or summon most things through demonic miracles, even Prime Day hasn’t held any appeal. But now he sees that at around 2 am last night he first paid an extortionate amount for Ultra-Prime and then… the damned angel mug.

Last night at about 2 am. Last night after he’d opened up some Cask 23 Cabernet Sauvignon from Stag's Leap Wine Cellars and enjoyed very a long and deep wallowing session in the company of its rich redness.

It had all been the angel’s fault.

During the day they had run into each other in Soho, just around the corner from the bookshop. Crowley had been up to some very important tempting in the area and had not expected to run into the angel… right next to his shop. They had exchanged pleasantries, as much as a demon and an angel can be pleasant with each other, and then he’d been about to slouch off when Aziraphale had suggested Afternoon Tea.

And then Crowley had found himself sat in an old threadbare high-backed chair like a useless fool as his angelic associate had set out a rather lovely floral Wedgewood tea set. Aziraphale had added a piping hot teapot with a crocheted cosy full of holes, thick white bread smeared with butter, a round of toasted tea cakes (raisins removed), three different types of cake (chocolate, carrot, and angel – of course), and linen napkins with twisting strands of honeysuckle embroidered on the corners.

“Well, this is nice.” Aziraphale had said eventually. “I don’t get to bring this set out very often. Josiah made it for me after I wore one of his abolitionist cameos to poor mad old George Three’s court, and then they became rather popular.”

“ _You_ started a fashion trend?!” Crowley had said, regretting how dismissive the words sounded almost immediately. He sipped at the Earl Grey tea that he’d transformed into a very bitter black coffee and allowed it to burn his tongue.

“Oh, I rather think the anti-slavery message is what actually became popular. But I did see ladies with the medallions in their hair and about their wrists like charms.” Aziraphale breaks into his slice of angel cake with a silver cake fork, smiling softly.

Crowley had been sure that he had smelled just a hint of pride in the angel then, and it had amused him. He had given the angel a wide smile in return and then been a little hurt as the angel had looked away, fussing with his napkin in his lap. A storm cloud had brewed in front of Crowley’s brow, and he had stabbed his slice of angel cake.

“And what were you doing in Soho today?” Aziraphale had asked casually, pushing the last few crumbs about and probably thinking about taking another slice. But all the angel cake had been gone.

“Have mine, angel.” Crowley had said, passing over his uneaten cake, silver fork and all. He’d worried the slice with it, but it wasn’t really what he’d been in the mood for.

“Thank you, my dear!” The angel had beamed, and Crowley had watched, heart doing very strange things in his chest as the angel used the demon’s fork to slice and spear pieces to be taken to his sweet mouth.

The dark cloud on his brow had lifted a bit but had then came crashing down again as he had realised that he was blatantly staring at a damned piece of cutlery being used by the angel. He had flung his legs over the arm of the chair and leant back, overly casually.

“I was just in Soho for a few temptations.”

“Oh, is that so?”

Aziraphale had tried to feign casual disinterest, puttering about with the tray and the cups, but Crowley’s senses tingled, and he had realised that the angel, for all his blessed goodness, wanted to know. He had wanted to _gossip_.

“Anyone I know?” Aziraphale had asked in an off-hand way.

Crowley had quickly searched his memory for some names. “Ummm, Ms Whip a few doors down. Old Miss Edwina Chatterton at the wine shop. Philip in the pub. I’m just stirring the pot a bit. Maybe plant the seeds for an affair or two, or maybe an argument about rubbish piling up.”

He had shrugged, realising a moment too late that the angel’s face was now also dark and stormy. Crowley had mistaken his concern for a desire to gossip, and he’d watched the angel charging up to full-on anger, small lightning flashes had actually crackling between the white curls by his temples.

“My neighbours?!” the angel had snapped. “You’re tempting my neighbours?!”

“Yeah… well, you know, it’s all in a day’s work.”

“You can’t!”

“Demon.” He had said, jabbing a thumb towards his chest.

“Crowley!”

“You know what I do. You’ve done it before as a part of the Arrangement!”

“But not in our backyard!”

“Your backyard, angel! I don’t live here!” Crowley had snapped and hoped the angel didn’t hear the plaintive note in his voice that resounded in his own ears. “And besides, you can go about after and fix it all up, better’n before even! Thwarting, it's in the job description, right?!”

The angel had huffed a bit at that, knowing there wasn’t a decent argument against Crowley’s final game-set-and-match winning point. But Afternoon Tea was definitely _over_.

So, he’d settled himself on his throne-like chair that evening and worked his way through a couple of two hundred and fifty quid bottles of wine until he could forget the angel’s anger. And some point in that bleary haze he’d logged on, bought a damned mug and then forgotten to clear out the alcohol from his body before passing out.

Crowley groaned, and it wasn’t just from the hangover. That he could deal with in a snap of his fingers. But he chose not to. Instead, he went back to looking at the mug. Was this his idea of an apology?! A mug with angel wings that – he checked the price online – had only cost him seven quid fifty and a very expensive Ultra-Prime membership to get it here in time for… in time for what? Did drunk Crowley plan to head over to Soho today with the mug as an olive branch? Did he think that the angel would drink happily from this piece of tat, as happily as he drank from fine bone china, his lips touching the edge of it, soft and pink… He shook his head pushing the idea from his mind. No, the angel would laugh at this ridiculous thing with its stupid angel wings made of cheap ceramic! Drunk Crowley was a bloody moron!

“You’re not exactly a Wedgewood tea set, are you?” He said to the mug. “Bloody Josiah bloody Wedgewood.” He growled in a voice that set his plants to shaking again before placing the mug back in the box and shoving it along the table, away from him.

For the rest of the day, he avoided his flat and the damned angel mug packaged up again in cardboard. He wandered the streets with his hands in his pockets and his shoulder-length hair falling over his face after he released it from its bun. Of course, his traitorous feet took him back to the book shop.

There was a man outside, reading Aziraphale’s note about the opening hours and consulting his diary when Crowley got closer.

“Ah, sorry, do you know if they will be open today?” Asked the human, sounding a little frantic.

“Doubtful,” Crowley said, looking him over, and taking in the sweat on his brow and the holes in his shoes. “The owner keeps his own hours.”

“Blast it. I’ve got a delivery to make. Ultra-Prime. I’ll get fined if it's not there in the next five minutes…”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose above his sunglasses. “The owner has Ultra-Prime?”

“New member. They get the one-off Angel Service.”

“Angel service?” Crowley said, his mind-boggling for a moment.

“Our fastest response rate. This bloke must have only ordered this last night.” He holds up a small brown box.

“Let me take that, I’ll get it to him,” Crowley says, giving the man’s mind a little nudge.

“I shouldn’t really…”

“Oh, it will be fine. And you have other deliveries, don’t you? Shouldn’t want to get behind on those. Trussst me.” Crowley’s eyes capture and hold the man’s, even through his glasses. “Trussst me.”

“Alrighty then!” The man says cheerfully and hands over the box.

Crowley knocks at the bookshop door, “It's me, angel, can I come in?”

The door opens by itself and Crowley goes in. The bookshop is dark and quiet. Too quiet. Could upstairs know about the Arrangement?!

He raises the package as an impromptu weapon.

“What are you doing Crowley?!”

Aziraphale emerged from among the bookshelves and seems to be in one piece.

“Angel! I err, um, I… I brought this delivery in. I didn’t know you bothered with online shopping?”

“I err, um, I… I don’t ordinarily. But I was drinking a _little_ last night.”

The angel gestures behind him to his desktop computer which now has a flat black box by its side, red lights blinking at them. Crowley suspects that the archaic thing actually runs at broadband speeds, even if it probably still whines and screeches like dial-up because the angel doesn’t know any better.

“It's ahhh, its actually for you, Crowley.” Aziraphale admits, blushing, “Just a little something to say that I’m sorry about my reaction during our tea yesterday.”

“You bought _me_ a present to say sorry?” He puts his free hand behind his back and summons the box from his table, before bringing it around his lean body to present it to his ‘associate’, “But I got you this in apology!”

“Oh Crowley!” Aziraphale beams, “You didn’t?!”

“I did, angel.”

They swap the packages and both tear into them with supernatural strength.

“Oh, that is just lovely!” Gasps Aziraphale as he turns the mug in his hands, “Look! Little wings! Just _lovely!_ ”

“I mean, it’s not exactly Wedgewood-” Crowley starts, but is stopped by his gift, this time genuinely confused. “A magnifying glass?”

“Yes, well I know that you can see perfectly well to the atomic level, but sometimes maybe you need a bit of… prompting.”

The angel walks to a sideboard and brings out one of the ever-so-delicate tea cups that they were drinking from yesterday. “Take a closer look.”

Crowley obeys, leaning in to peer through the magnifying glass, like a detective on the trail of a murderer.

“You see, my dearest, Josiah didn’t just make me a tea set. He asked me to work on the design itself so that it’d be something I really liked. Something I really loved.”

Crowley’s breath stops, and he has to remind his heart to beat. There, amidst the colourful Summer flowers sprouting on the porcelain, were tiny black snakes. Some twined around the leaves, some sniffed the petals with their tongues, some slept under canopies of roses. But all over the fine china were miniature versions of him.

“Did you say… ‘loved’?”

“Put the teacup down Crowley. It is very delicate and very precious to me, and I don’t want it to get damaged.” The angel said gently, but in a voice that brooked absolutely no disobedience. But Crowley didn’t want to disobey. He set the teacup and its hidden snakes down next to the angel mug. He let the angel take the magnifying glass away too so that his hands were free to be held in Aziraphale’s.

“You said ‘loved’” Crowley repeated, his mind stuck on that fact like a record bumping back to the same chords.

“I did, dearest,” Aziraphale said, and when he kissed him, lips soft and sweet, it was better than all the angel cake in the world.


End file.
